


Armed With Every Precious Failure

by Thistlerose



Series: So Effed Up We Belong Together [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keep his hands clean.  His father's most important lesson.  Leonard's are covered in blood, and yet he offered one to Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October 2255

**Author's Note:**

> For 1297. Many thanks to Linelenagain for beta reading.

Leonard doesn't make the connection. Not at first. As far as lapses go, he supposes it's forgivable; when he first met Jim Kirk, he was drunk, scared shitless, missing his daughter and his practice back in Georgia, mourning his father and his marriage. Besides, there have to be dozens of men named Jim Kirk, maybe hundreds. After the _Kelvin_ disaster, James got a boost in popularity, and Kirk is a common enough surname.

Leonard doesn't realize _his_ Jim Kirk – his _friend_, Jim Kirk – is _that_ Jim Kirk, until about two months after their arrival in San Francisco.

They're in Early Starfleet History, listening to a lecture on the Earth-Romulan War and how it led directly to the establishment of the Neutral Zone and the founding of the United Federation of Planets. Leonard's taking notes on his PADD; he learned most of this stuff in grade school, but it's been a while and he knows he's not going to remember which battle was fought where and which Starfleet captain did what. He likes history and this is pretty engrossing stuff, but while he's absorbing everything the instructor's saying, he's also aware of Jim, seated next to him.

The kid _isn't_ taking notes, but he isn't slouching or nodding off, either. He's leaning forward in his seat, his elbows on his thighs, he hands clasped. There's something oddly appraising or expectant in the cant of his head. Leonard is curious, but he doesn't say anything. He figures he'll ask after the lecture's over, if Jim doesn't start talking on his own.

Then it happens.

"As you recall," the instructor says, "or _should_ recall from your reading, ship-to-ship communications of the mid-twenty-second century were not what they are today. During the war, and during the peace negotiations following the Battle of Cheron, _all_ communications between Earth-allied ships and Romulan-allied ships were conducted by subspace radio. No visuals. Consequently, neither side ever saw the face of its enemy. _Think_ about that. Until the _Kelvin_ disaster – more than seventy years after Cheron – no one even knew what a Romulan looked like."

The instructor pauses and scans the crowded lecture hall. "Speaking of the _Kelvin_," she says, "we have among us one of the many survivors of that tragic encounter: the son of the late Captain Kirk."

She says it casually, like a side-note. There's a rustle and a shuffle as cadets turn in their seats, but since the dead hero's son doesn't acknowledge himself, curiosity fades as soon as the instructor resumes her lecture. While she proceeds to explain the intricacies of the Human, Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellarite alliance, Leonard steals a glance at Jim.

The kid hasn't moved, but there's tension in the line of his jaw now, and his knuckles are practically white. His glance flicks sideways unexpectedly, and just for a moment, their eyes meet.

_Well, damn_, Leonard thinks, looking down at his PADD.

*

When he thinks about it, he realizes that the _Kelvin_ tragedy is the first news story that really made an impression on him as a child. He remembers sitting between his parents on the upholstered sofa in the living room, watching the story unfold.

His mother, a Professor of History at Emory University, tried to explain about the Romulan Star Empire and the Neutral Zone, but almost everything she said went over his head. Leonard was exceptionally smart – not even six, and they were talking about moving him up to second grade in the fall – but all he could focus on were the images taken by the shuttles as they fled: the _Kelvin_ falling like a sparrow into the enemy ship, disappearing in a burst of flame and metal shards.

At least one man was still on the _Kelvin_ at the moment of impact: Captain George Kirk, who'd remained behind and seen the shuttles safely away.

"Is he still alive?" Leonard remembers asking his parents, as curls of flame and fragments of titanium-alloy filled the vid screen. He could still see them, even when he closed his eyes.

"No," his father said.

"Are you _sure_?" He looked at his father. David McCoy was a brilliant surgeon. As far as Leonard was concerned, he could save anyone. The idea that, with a single word, he could consign a man to death seemed incredible. Even if the man was hundreds of light years away from Atlanta, Georgia.

His father wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. "Yes."

*

"That was weird," Leonard says as he and Jim jog down the granite steps outside the lecture hall.

Jim shrugs. "At least she didn't ask me to raise my hand and wave."

"I had no idea. I swear," he adds, not sure why he's suddenly feeling defensive.

Jim stops and flashes him a brief, hard smile. His eyes are grayish in the misting rain. "I know you didn't. Look, I need to run. I'll see you later. Chinese food at your place? Then, I don't know, maybe we can quiz each other on Tactical Analysis."

He slips away before Leonard can respond. He was either going to say _Yeah, sure, Jim_ or _Since when do you need help with tactics?_ Finding himself alone, he grips the strap of his satchel, and turns in the direction of his next class.

*

Jim shows up at Leonard's dorm at around 20:00 with his PADD and a few cartons of Chinese food. There's rain in his hair and mud on his boots. Leonard trades him a towel for the cartons, which he sets on his desk and cracks open. Jim brought brown rice, steamed dumplings, sweet and sour soup, lo mein, vegetables steeped in hoisin sauce, and some kind of chicken thing with peanuts. As the aroma fills the small room, Leonard's stomach growls; he expected Jim two hours ago, and he's hungry.

"This'll last a few days."

"S'what I figured," Jim says as he toes off his boots and leaves them to dry on the mat by the door. Rubbing his hair with the towel, he joins Leonard by the food. "We can avoid the mess hall for a while. Tactics, my friend." He extends his hand, and Leonard gives him a pair of metal chopsticks.

"Plates?"

"Nah." Jim claims the lo mein. He sits cross-legged on the floor and digs in.

Leonard takes the carton of vegetables and a fork.

Jim clicks his chopsticks and slurps his noodles. After a few minutes, he lifts his head and says, "Where's your flask?"

"In the drawer. Where it always is."

"Anything in it?"

"There's always something in it."

Jim sets his food down and rummages through the bottom drawer of Leonard's dresser. He finds the flask of emergency bourbon and unscrews the cap.

"Look, about this morning," Leonard begins.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

Which translates to, _I don't want to talk about it sober._ A few swigs of bourbon later, and he's a chatterbox.

"Fuck her," he mutters, stabbing at the dumplings with his chopsticks. "Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her. Does she think I have some kind of special insight into what happened just because I was there? I wasn't even two minutes old. I didn't know my father was dying."

Cautiously, Leonard says, "I don't think that's what she meant."

"Fuck you too."

Leonard lets that slide. "Come on. She was trying to make the lesson more real. Make the _history_ more real, by connecting it with the class. It was a stupid thing to say, but I honestly don't think she meant any harm."

"If she didn't mean any harm, she shouldn't have fucking said it."

"Fine."

Leaving his chopsticks impaled in the dumplings, Jim pushes the food away from him and slouches against Leonard's bed. Still holding the flask and glaring at his socks, he says, "D'you know what the worst thing is?"

"No, Jim. What is it?"

"I'll tell you the second-worst thing first. The second-worst thing is that everyone here expects me to follow in his footsteps. Not that I'm supposed to die in the line of duty, but that I'm supposed to be this … this legend, or something. Like it's genetic. One Kirk died? No problem, here's a replacement. Which is funny, 'cause half the people I knew in Riverside thought I was going to be a worthless piece of shit just like my Uncle Frank."

Leonard wonders just who Jim thinks is pressuring him here. They don't have all their classes together, but from what he's seen, no one's giving Jim undue attention. Of course, that doesn't mean he isn't getting any. He also wonders just how many people here have put two and two together – something Leonard occasionally fails to do, apparently – and realized that Jim is who he is. He doesn't like that he's been kept in the dark all this while, though he can't think why. He's only known the kid two months.

"The worst thing," Jim says, "is that I'm supposed to be so fucking proud. Like it's such an honor to have a father like mine, and I should be so grateful. For what? 'Cause he died honorably? Y'know, that's almost all I know about him? Growing up, that's practically the only thing anyone ever said to me about him. Maybe he _was_ an asshole like me, and he just happened to _be_ there. Maybe:

"_Nothing in his life  
Became him like the leaving it. He died  
As one that had been studied in his death  
To throw away the dearest thing he owed  
As 'twere a careless trifle._"

It's not the first time since Leonard met him that Jim has broken into iambic pentameter. The words flow naturally, Leonard notes with some appreciation; the kid could've been an actor.

"Fuck him." Jim drops his head against the edge of Leonard's bed and lets out a long, constricted-sounding sigh. He shakes the flask. "You're out of bourbon."

"I can get more."

Jim lifts his head. His eyebrows are raised.

"I don't mean right now."

"Oh. Sorry. Look." Jim bends his knees and starts to push himself up. "It was nice of you to listen and all. Sorry I … never mind. Where're my boots?"

"Where you left them," Leonard says dryly. "By the door."

"Oh. Yeah. I need to get going." He crosses the floor with surprising steadiness.

"You don't have to," Leonard says, though he's a little annoyed; he hadn't planned on waiting two hours for Jim, then listening to his morose babbling.

"Yeah, I do." He shoves one foot into a boot and bends to lace it. His long fingers move nimbly; he holds his liquor well. "I swear, if I don't get laid in the next hour, I'm gonna explode." He glances up, and his lips actually quirk in a faint smile. "You should come with me. I owe you a drink. 'Sides, it's been – what? Two months since your divorce? Three? It's time."

"For what?" Leonard asks, one eyebrow raised.

"For you to get your rocks off."

"Who says I haven't been?"

Jim laughs as he starts on his other boot. "I do. C'mon, old man. It'll be fun."

"Somehow, I don't think so. Besides, I have to work tomorrow. Early."

"But it's Friday."

"And tomorrow's Saturday, and the hospital doesn't close for the weekend. Which is a good thing for assholes like you."

Having finished with his boots, Jim stands. "Well, I'll give someone a good, hard fuck for you. I'll even make them call me Leonard." His sudden frown is thoughtful. "Or Len? Lenny? Leo?" He smirks.

"If I wanted you to call me any of those names," Leonard says in a low growl, "that's how I'd've introduced myself."

Jim palms the round, illuminated button on the panel behind him, and the door slides open. "McCoy, Leonard McCoy, the man with nothing left but his bones."

Then he's gone, and Leonard's left alone with the Chinese food, the smell of alcohol, and a growing sense of unease. It claws in his stomach and he tries to ignore it, but he can't. This thing he has with Jim, this odd friendship, can't be going anywhere good. Somewhere down the line, there's going to be an explosion, and it's going to be messy.

But at least he knows now how he's going to get Jim Kirk out of his hair.

*

Leonard thinks of his father as his first teacher. He remembers listening avidly, even at the age of five or six, to everything his father told him. He adored his mother, of course, but she was mostly concerned with dates, political movements, and people long dead: things Leonard couldn't, at least as a small child, wrap his head around.

But his father knew about the real world, about living bodies. The things he tried to explain to Leonard were things that Leonard could see with his own eyes: if you play in the sun too long without a hat or sunscreen, you'll burn and it'll hurt like hell; if your nose is bleeding, and you tip your head backward instead of forward, yeah, you won't stain your shirt, but the blood'll drip down your fool throat and you'll choke.

Since Leonard's father seemed to be right about so many things, Leonard took just about everything he said to heart.

He took his vitamins faithfully. He didn't stuff himself at his friends' birthday parties. He brushed his teeth after breakfast and dinner (and after lunch too on the weekends or holidays). And he washed his hands.

"That's probably the most important thing you can remember, Len," his father said once. "Keep your hands clean. I'm not saying don't have fun, but before you do anything else, wash your hands."

(It's been nearly a quarter of a century, but Leonard thinks this most sacred of lessons must have been imparted to him at a picnic. He has a vague memory of cool grass beneath a scratchy green blanket, and his father wiping peach juice from his hands with a napkin and anti-bacterial gel.)

"I mean it," said his father. "It'll keep you and everyone you go near from getting sick. In the old days, doctors used to kill their patients by treating them with dirty hands. You got that, Len?"

"Uh-huh," he said solemnly.

*

There are plenty of reasons for Leonard McCoy to want Jim Kirk out of his hair.

Jim's basically a good kid – brilliant, considerate when he wants to be – but he's a mess. Leonard knew he'd lost his father at an early age, even though he hadn't known the circumstances. He knows Jim's relationships with his mother and older brother are rocky, that he has an uncle who was verbally if not physically abusive. He knows Jim never went to college, though he could've gotten into just about anywhere if he'd felt like applying.

Jim likes to drink, he likes to fuck strangers in bars, and he likes to fight. Often all three in the space of one evening. He generally saves his self-destructive behavior for the weekends and it doesn't seem to interfere with his coursework, but it _is_ self-destructive behavior. Leonard's sealed enough abrasions, put ice on enough bruises, and listened to Jim whine and groan through enough hangovers to know that.

And Leonard can't deal with that, not the mess in Jim's head. He isn't qualified. He has a Master's in psychology, but he's a surgeon, damn it.

Jim needs someone who can do more than just patch him up when he's injured. He needs someone who can get at the core of his problems.

And Leonard can't. He just can't. He has problems enough of his own.

There's his aviophobia, for one thing. His heart starts racing and his hands shake at the _thought_ of getting on a shuttle sober.

There's his daughter, his little girl, whom he misses like a piece of his soul.

There's the fact that he's twenty-eight – almost twenty-nine – and once more living in a goddamn dorm with kids ten years his junior. At least he's been spared the indignity of having to deal with a roommate; his PhD and MD have done that much for him.

There's the fact that, as Jim rightly deduced, he hasn't gotten laid since one wholly un-noteworthy one-night-stand a week after his divorce was finalized.

And then there's the fact that Jim wouldn't want Leonard's help, never mind his friendship, if he knew the truth.

Keep his hands clean. His father's most important lesson. Leonard's are covered in blood, and yet he offered one to Jim.

 

*

Still, when there's a lull in his Saturday morning shift, Leonard comms Jim. It's closer to lunchtime than to breakfast, but the kid sounds truly out of it when he finally answers.

"_Fuck, man. What the fucking fuck?_" he groans.

"Morning, sunshine. How're you feeling?"

"_Could tell you. Or you could stab yourself in the eyes with a scalpel an' see fer y'erself. Ow, fuck, ow._" He sounds hoarse. Either he shouted his throat raw, someone tried to choke him, or he's really dehydrated. Or all three.

"Just checking to make sure you're alive. And that you made it home safe."

Something about Jim's silence rubs him all wrong.

"Kid? You're home, right?"

"_Uh, no. M'at the beach, actually._"

For a few seconds, Leonard can't talk. Then he can't stop: "The _beach?_ You spent the night on the beach? Are you out of your goddamn mind? You spent the night on the beach in the middle of October. In the rain. Drunk. You do know alcohol lowers your body temperature, right?"

"_Not the whole night. Just the last … I dunno. Few hours or so. Was walking around before that. It's not that bad. Not all of us are from the South. Some of us can handle a little cold._"

"Jim, I want you to get your ass in a cab, and get yourself up here now."

"_Sure, Mommy. Whatever you say._"

"I'm speaking as your doctor. If you're not up here in half an hour—"

Jim breaks the connection.

*

He shows up in under half an hour. Which, if nothing else, saves Leonard the trouble of thinking up something suitably dire.

He looks like hell: blood on his t-shirt, black eye, swollen lip, bruises across his knuckles. And that's just what Leonard takes in with a cursory glance. Oh, and he's limping. Wonderful.

"I hope she was worth it," Leonard mutters as he closes the door to the small examination room.

"Oh, _they_ were," Jim says nastily. He hoists himself onto the table and winces.

"Maybe I should've gone with you. I'm curious as to what one woman would see in you, never mind two or three."

"What makes you think they were all women?" There's a challenge in his tone. It gives Leonard a curious flutter, but he doesn't rise to the bait. "What makes you think they were all human? What, does that bother you?" Jim asks as Leonard walks over to him with a hypo of analgesic and a cold pack. "Which bothers you more, the men or the aliens?"

"Neither." He doesn't mean to jab Jim so hard with the hypospray, but the hiss of surprise and annoyance is damn satisfying. Shoving the cold pack into Jim's hands, he says gruffly, "I don't care who you fuck, so long as you're all consenting adults, and you're all protected. What bothers me is the fact that you're bruised and bleeding, and you spent the night, or at least a good part of it, shivering on the beach. You're telling me no one offered you a safe place to sleep?"

Once again, Jim's silence says everything.

"Then don't tell me a single one of them was worth this!"

He turns away, angry.

"Sorry," Jim says. And the crazy thing is, he does sound sorry. And young, and raw, and in pain, despite the fact that the analgesic must have kicked in by now.

Leonard sighs. "You can go now. Come on, get up. I need the room."

"Oh. So … I can't stay here?"

"Why would you want to?"

"I wanna sleep. I'm tired. My roommate's an asshole. It seems quiet here."

Leonard pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. There's that odd flutter again, but he doesn't have the patience to think about what it might mean. At length, he says, "You can sleep in my room. Just go. Take a shower, have something to eat, make yourself comfortable. You can borrow a clean shirt, if you want. I'll be there in a few hours."

Jim is quiet.

Curious, Leonard turns back around and looks at him. He's just sitting there on the edge of the examination table, long legs dangling, fingers wrapped around the cold pack. Against the bruises and the flecks of dried blood, his eyes are a startling shade of blue, and for just a second, Leonard's heart stutters.

"Thanks," Jim says.

"Don't mention it."

"No, really." Jim slides off the table. The touch of cold fingertips to the back of his hand sends a shiver through Leonard. "Thanks."

*

Leonard half-expects Jim to be gone by the time he makes it back to his room at 16:00 hours. To his surprise, the kid's still there, curled up in Leonard's bed, his bare feet sticking out of the rumpled covers. He finds the sight of those feet oddly endearing, the pile of dirty clothes on the floor by the bed less so. Leonard doesn't see any underwear in the pile, so the kid's got that much on.

Leonard tries to be quiet, but as he's toeing off his boots, Jim rolls over and pushes the covers back.

He _does_ have his boxers on, but otherwise he's naked. In the thin sunlight coming through the shades, his skin is very pale; the bruises and scratch marks stand out sharply.

"Hey," Leonard whispers. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"Didn't mean to sleep so long. I can—"

"No, stay. I'm too keyed up to sleep right now anyway."

"Busy shift?"

"Got busy near the end."

"Oh." Jim smiles. "Why are we whispering?"

Warmth slides into Leonard's stomach as he grins back. "I honestly don't know," he says in his normal voice.

For a heartbeat or two, all they do is look at each other.

Then Jim says, "Look, I'm sorry about before. I don't just mean at the hospital or when you commed. I was an asshole last night."

"Yeah, you were. It's okay, though."

"No, it's not. I know your father died too."

Leonard flinches, but the kid doesn't appear to notice. "It was over a year ago. It's all right."

"Why are you so nice to me?"

There's another silence, a little more awkward than the last one.

"It's 'cause your mamma raised a gentleman, right?"

"Right."

Jim yawns. "Okay if I go back to sleep?"

"Yeah, it's fine. I'll try to be quiet."

"You know what the real worst thing is? Not knowing him at all, and all the shit I missed out on. At least you have your memories, right?"

"Go to sleep, Jim," Leonard says.

Tugging the blanket back up to his shoulder, Jim rolls over again. Now all Leonard can see is the tawny hair against the navy blue pillowcase, and the gentle curve of his neck. An unwanted image flashes through him: Jim on his back, eyes closed, lips parted, legs spread wide, ready for – God, anything. That neck thrown back, cords standing out against flushed skin. Hands touching him. All over. Leonard can't tell whose hands they are, but – there are a lot of them.

The growing ache between his legs brings Leonard back to reality. He sucks in a sharp breath and looks away from Jim. He needs to take a shower. A cold one.

As Leonard's loosening his uniform, the blankets rustle again, and Jim mumbles, "Hey … Bones?"

Leonard stops.

"F'you're tired, there's room."

"No there isn't," Leonard says tightly. "And I'm not. Go back to sleep."

Then: "What did you call me?"

But all he gets in response is a long, deep sigh.

So now he knows two things, Leonard thinks as he stands in the shower stall and lets cold water sluice down his back and shoulders. He knows how he's going to get Jim Kirk out of his hair, and he knows that when he finally does, it's going to do more than hurt; it's going to break his goddamn heart.


	2. January 2256

Jim says, "Okay, Bones, walk me through this. What's the first thing you do?"

"Strap myself in." Leonard pulls the safety harness across his chest. The metal parts connect with a reassuring click.

"Good. Next?"

"Make sure all of y'all are strapped in."

"I love the way you go all Southern when you're trying not to panic. Fine, we're all strapped in. What do you do next?"

Leonard stares at the helm's interface. "Vomit," he says decisively.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

Jim's pissyness amuses Leonard. It's a distraction, anyway. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that the kid's actually glaring, his lips pursed tightly.

"Sorry, sorry."

"Bones, I'm serious. Someday, both our lives might depend on your ability to pilot one of these things and get us back to the ship."

"God help us," Leonard mutters, "if we ever find ourselves in those dire straits."

Jim leans across the console and squeezes Leonard's wrist, making him look up. "No. That's not how it's gonna be. Come on. I know this is just a sim, but you have to take it seriously. I _need_ you to take it seriously. I don't want either of us to die because you can't pilot a shuttle. There's no reason for you not to be able to do this."

Jesus, he's intense. In the shuttle's artificial lighting, his eyes are almost electric blue. His brow is heavily furrowed, making him appear a lot older than twenty-two.

"All right." There's a knot tightening in the pit of his stomach, and his throat feels strangely thick, but Leonard swallows around that and tries to focus.

"So," says Jim, releasing his wrist.

"So." Leonard swallows again.

"The Klingons are closing in. The rest of the away team is injured. No one's bleeding out on the floor, but you're the only one who's fit to fly. All our lives are in your hands. _My_ life is in your hands."

"So, no pressure. Good."

"What do you do?"

There's a sickly sweet taste in Leonard's mouth and his palms are clammy. Still, he manages to keep his hands steady as he moves them over the interface. He _knows_ how to pilot these Class F shuttles; he's read the manual cover to cover. The problem is when they start to shake … like this one's starting to shake as he engages the thrusters. Leonard reminds himself that this is just a sim, they're not actually about to blast off.

"You're doing great," Jim says. "Really great. We're in the air. Just remember to breathe."

"Fuck you."

"Breathe."

"I can't."

"You can."

He can't. He's trying, but he really can't. His throat feels completely constricted, and black spots are beginning to dance before his eyes. He's going to pass out, and they're going to crash and die.

"Bones. Look at me."

He shakes his head.

"All right. I'm coming over to you." There's a distant click as Jim unbuckles his seatbelt.

"No," Leonard chokes out. "First rule. Seatbelts—" He _is_ shaking now, shaking all over, and his heart his hammering wildly. "Oh, God. Jim—"

"I'm here." And he _is_ there, a cool palm pressed to Leonard's forehead, like he's checking for a fever. The other hand grips Leonard's left shoulder. "I'm here," Jim murmurs again, his mouth close to Leonard's ear. "I've got you. Just breathe. C'mon. Breathe." Jim inhales deeply, and Leonard sucks in an instinctive breath.

"Good." Jim slides his hand into Leonard's hair. His fingers tangle in the sweaty locks. "You can do this. You can graft neural tissue to the cerebral cortex. Fuck, you developed the procedure. I don't know what it entails, but I'm pretty sure if you can do that, you can do this."

"You'd be surprised," Leonard mutters through gritted teeth, "how many doctors can b-barely write an – an English s-sentence or—"

"_You_ can. When you're ready, I want you to take us up to atmosphere cruising velocity. When you're ready."

Leonard's fingers move across the interface with a clumsiness that shames him. His hands never tremble during surgery. Never. Afterward, sure, but not during. And those are living bodies he deals with in the OR; this is just a dumb machine. He can _do_ this.

"_Mach Two_," the computer informs them in a tinny female tone.

"You can do this," Jim whispers, and presses his lips gently to Leonard's temple.

Something in Leonard stutters. "Got an interesting teaching t-technique there, kid. Are you this w-way with everyone?"

Jim doesn't answer right away. Leonard feels the puff of air as his mouth opens. But then the shuttle tilts and lurches. Leonard falls forward; the edges of the seatbelt cut sharply through his uniform. Jim grunts as he slams into the back of the seat.

"_Danger,_" the computer says. "_Atmospheric dist—_"

"You can do this." He can barely hear Jim over the roaring in his ears. "You can do this, Bones, you can do this."

His throat closes up. The edges of his vision darken. His heart starts shuddering like it's trying to shrink in on itself.

"Bones—"

He can't. He can't he can't he can't.

*

He doesn't piss himself or lose consciousness, or even vomit. Still, afterward, he has no memory of Jim ending the simulation and unstrapping him, and only the vaguest recollection of Jim half-carrying him back to the dorms, frosted grass crunching underfoot, the sky blue and brittle.

Jim hardly says anything as he strips Leonard down to his boxers, undershirt, and socks, then tucks him into bed. Then he disappears and Leonard lies there in the darkness, shivering under the blanket, his blood moving sluggishly through him. He wants to get up, but he's afraid that if he does, the bed will start lurching just like the shuttle, and he'll really fall apart.

Jim returns about five minutes later, cradling a mug of steaming liquid. As he sets it down on the nightstand, Leonard croaks, "Better be something alcoholic in there."

Lowering himself to the edge of the bed, Jim replies, "'Course there is. What kind of a friend d'you think I am? Don't answer that." He seems engrossed in the ends of his hands, which rest against his thighs. "I'm sorry I pushed. I should've stopped the sim as soon as you started freaking out, but I wanted to have something to celebrate."

That last thing doesn't make a lick of sense to Leonard, so he ignores it. "S'okay," he says weakly. "Wasn't meant to be."

"C'mon, don't say that. I'm not a shrink. I just know what works for me. When something scares me, I usually leap right into it. I thought maybe piloting the thing, being in control…"

Leonard is tempted to remind Jim that he has a phobia, which isn't like normal, rational fear. Instead, he pushes himself up against the pillows and asks quietly, "What scares you?"

"You know," says Jim, "counselors have been asking me that since I was five and climbing all over the roof of my uncle's barn."

"I'm asking."

"As a counselor?"

"As a friend, of course. I want to know. What terrifies you?"

"Well," says Jim, hitching his shoulders in a gesture that's not quite a flinch and not quite a shrug, "I really don't want to talk about it. It's not intimacy, though. A lot of people – a lot of people I used to date, or who wanted to date me, I guess – thought I had intimacy issues, and I don't. I just have trouble confining my intimacy to one person, and _they_ had issues with that."

Leonard sips his tea – which is really more honey and brandy than tea – and lets Jim babble. There's something festering beneath it. He's curious, and for all the wrong reasons. He's not interested in fixing Jim; right now, he doesn't think he could if he tried. He just wants something from the kid, something more than this gentle attention.

"If it's not intimacy," he says, "and it's not heights – apparently – what is it? I promise I won't try to psychoanalyze you."

"Yes, you will. That's just the way you are."

Leonard doesn't like that – the words and the warning beneath them – but he keeps probing. "Fine, I'll keep my professional opinion to myself, if you prefer. But I think I deserve to know. You know what scares me. Fuck, you pushed me to confront it."

"You let me push you. Anyway, you _told_ me what scares you the first time we met. 'Hi, I'm McCoy-Leonard-McCoy, and I'm scared shitless of flying in shuttles. Is this seat taken?'"

"Yeah, and?"

"And?" Jim rubs his palms against his thighs. "You're talking like I owe you something."

"You think you _don't_?"

"I don't think," says Jim, "that I owe anybody anything."

"Jim…" The tea, honey, and brandy are helping; he's starting to warm up. He's also starting to feel annoyed. "If you don't think you owe anybody anything, what are you even doing here?"

Jim looks at him finally, a sideways glance that keeps half his face in shadow. "Excuse me?"

"Didn't you tell me once that one of the worst things about losing your dad the way you did was the fact that people think you're just going to follow in his footsteps? That you're his replacement?" He hears the words coming out of his mouth and he doesn't like them, but he can't make himself stop. "If that's _not_ true, why the hell are you even in Starfleet?"

"Shut up." Jim's voice is low, almost a whisper.

"No." Leonard sets his tea on the nightstand and pushes himself up further. "Talk to me, Jim, walk me through this. You finished high school and basically spent the next four years drinking, fucking, and getting into fights. Feel free to jump in and correct me if any of this is wrong. You're a genius, but before this summer, you hadn't done one worthwhile thing in your adult life. You have a rap sheet as long as my arm. Captain Pike comes along, recognizes your name, figures out whose son you are, and offers you a spot on the very next transport shuttle to San Francisco. You're telling me you don't owe anyone anything?"

"A hit," Jim says, laying a hand over his heart. "A very palpable hit. So you're saying I owe something to Pike and Starfleet and maybe my father. Fuck them. What do you think I owe you? What've you done for me?"

"What have I…?" He can't believe he's hearing this. There are so many things he could say. (_Who puts ice on your bruises, and heals your fractures? Who calls in the morning to make sure you're still breathing? Who lets you crash at his place, just because you don't want to deal with your asshole roommate? Who lets you push him into doing things that scare the crap out of him? Who, until now, has never asked you to justify a goddamn thing?_) But the words freeze on his lips.

"Let me put it another way," Jim says. "What do you _want_ from me?"

So many things he could say. (_Your friendship. A little more trust. For you to love yourself as much as I'm starting to think I love you._)

What comes out is: "What do your one-night stands get?"

It's downright eerie the way Jim's expression doesn't change at all. "I can show you," he says, leaning toward Leonard. "You want me to make you come? 'Cause I can. I can make you come screaming. D'you think that's fair? Come on." He starts to tug the blanket away. "It'll feel good. And you need it. I don't think I've ever met anyone who needs it as badly as you." He puts his hands on Leonard's thighs and presses down hard.

"Stop it."

"What if I don't want to? Maybe I want to suck your dick. Maybe I've wanted it for a long time. Maybe I'm curious. Do self-righteous, chickenshit, Southern pricks taste like everyone else?"

"You wanna know if I taste the same as the dozen or so dicks you've sucked this week?" It's like picking at a scab, he thinks. Each little rip stings and raises a drop of blood, but he can't stop. There's a familiarity to it; he and Jocelyn used to go at each other a little like this.

"Only a dozen? You wound me. And don't forget all the pussy I've eaten. And all the … you know, I don't even know what some of the aliens I've fucked call their genitalia. Interlocking parts are interlocking parts. That's basically the extent of my anatomy lesson. Pretty shocking, isn't it?"

Leonard's stomach muscles tighten as Jim strokes his thighs. The blood rushes from his head to his dick, and it takes almost all of his strength to bite back a moan. He's on the shuttle again. His universe has narrowed to one tiny pocket of air surrounded by a vast, dark nothing. With every movement, with every breath, his universe trembles and shrinks a little more. He's going to be sick.

Somewhere in the darkness, Jim says, "You want me. I fucking knew it."

"What I want," says Leonard, looking away, looking everywhere but at Jim's face, "is for you to get the fuck out."

*

Jocelyn never understood about his father: why his death hit so hard, or why Leonard almost quit medicine as a result. He tried to explain it to her, though, in all fairness, he probably didn't try as hard as he could have. He didn't tell her everything. She thought he was being overly emotional. Grieving too hard. She thought it would have a negative effect on Joanna.

"You know, there's a reason you're not supposed to treat your own family. Anyway, it was his time, Len," she told him with a sigh. (He was really coming to resent the way she sighed after every other statement.) "I'm not saying get over it, I'm saying … you did everything you could, and sometimes that's just not enough." (Another sigh, with the implication: _I'm doing everything _I_ can, and it's not enough._) "You're a doctor, not a magician. You're not God. Please, try to think of Jo. Think of what it means for her to see you like this."

"Like what?"

"Drinking. Not sleeping. Not eating. Not working."

"I thought you wanted me to spend more time at home."

(Sigh.) "I didn't mean like this! I mean, _look_ at you. It's been four weeks – almost a month. You're a grownup. Act like it. Instead of mourning his death, start celebrating his life. Your father was a good man. He wouldn't want to see you like this."

She didn't understand. Grief heals so much more quickly and cleanly than guilt.

*

It makes sense that Jocelyn would come to mind right after Jim storms out, leaving Leonard with a pounding headache and half a hard-on. He licks his palm, slides his hand into his boxers, and gropes himself while he thinks about the two of them. Not exactly conducive, but he feels like he left at least half his brain cells at the simulation lab.

_Self-righteous, chickenshit Southern prick._

It hurts. Leonard's been called far worse things, and it's clear Jim was lashing out, but he wasn't wrong.

For the first time, it occurs to Leonard that Jim's good opinion _matters_.

Too late now.

Jocelyn and Jim. He pushed both of them away. Decided at some point that their departures were inevitable, so he might as well help them along. Still, they're not equivalent: he and Jocelyn were married for seven years; he's only known Jim since the summer.

He'd been so young when he'd married Joss: twenty-one, almost two whole years younger than Jim Kirk – and right now, it's hard to imagine anyone younger than Jim Kirk. He'd felt so grown-up, though. Twenty-one, and already two years out of college. Working hard on his Master's thesis. So fucking brilliant. Such a promising future. He was already living the life he thought he wanted, so why wait? Why not marry his girlfriend and make a baby with her?

As soon as his thoughts turn to Jo, he pulls his hand out of his boxers. His face burns; he'd actually forgotten that he was trying to jerk himself off. It doesn't matter, he thinks as he grabs the blanket and yanks it up to his shoulder; he's gone soft anyway.

With a grunt, he rolls onto his side.

Jocelyn, Joanna, Jim. Maybe he'd be better off if he avoided people whose names begin with J.

_Jocelyn._

She liked his idea, at first. Four years his senior, and nearly done with her Master's in Music, she wanted a baby and was willing to put her career on hold, at least until Joanna was old enough for pre-school. He took her acquiescence for love, and maybe it was in the beginning. He must have loved her too, back then. Despite their parents' misgivings, they felt happy. Then Joanna came along.

_Joanna._

She upset his world when she entered it. Not her fault, of course, and he doesn't wish that he and Jocelyn had waited. But the first moment he held her, he felt old. Not grown-up, but old. Stretched thin, really, between his love for her and his passion for his work. By the time Joanna was two, Jocelyn was feeling stretched thin as well. Her students weren't enough; she wanted to return to performing, but her rehearsal time was never compatible with his hours at the hospital. He'd moved on to his MD by then. He was developing a technique for neural grafting. At twenty-four. There was interplanetary interest in his findings. He couldn't stop, couldn't slow down.

Education, career, marriage, fatherhood. It was too much, too soon. He really wanted to be the father Joanna deserved. And deep in his heart, he knew he was going to fail. Just like he knew, in his heart, that he wasn't going to find his father's cure in time.

Just like he knew he'd lose Jim eventually.

_Damnit, Jim._

He kicks restlessly at the sheets, which have gotten bunched up at the end of the bed. He twists onto his other side so he's facing the nightstand. There's his PADD, his medical tricorder, and the mug of tea that Jim brewed for him.

It's so strange. He can see himself getting up at some point, showering, and getting dressed. He can see himself showing up for his classes and his shifts at the hospital. He can see himself doing well at his studies, his job.

But that's all he can see. That's _it_.

_It's better like this. We're too fucked up for each other. He'll latch onto someone else, if he doesn't self-destruct. And I'll be all right._

Eventually.

Right now it feels like something hard and sharp is poking around under his ribs. It hurts a little more with each breath.

He closes his eyes. _God, Jim._

But they had some good times. Between bouts of aggravation, there were moments when they really seemed to trust each other, to be looking out for each other.

_At least I have my memories._

Yeah, he does.

Jim said that to him once, didn't he? _At least you have your memories._ Lying in this very bed, pale and limp in the mid-afternoon light: like a stray puppy, or something rare and vulnerable that the sea had cast up and left stranded on Leonard's shore.

What the hell had they been talking about? Dead fathers, Leonard thinks.

Memories. Like the brush of Jim's lips against his temple, at least he has _that_.

And then he remembers something else Jim said, right before they started tearing into each other: _I wanted to have something to celebrate._

Why those words come back to him now, Leonard doesn't know. They still don't make any sense.

And then suddenly they do. Leonard puts two and two together, and comes up with tomorrow's date.

He opens his eyes. To no one in particular, he says, "Well, damn. I am the biggest fucking idiot in the universe."

*

It takes a few hours for him to pull himself together, and in the end he's barely in time to intercept Jim. He makes it to the kid's dorm just as he's leaving. Dressed in a clean pair of jeans, indigo silk shirt open to just below his clavicle, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, there's no question as to his destination.

Leonard plants himself stolidly in front of him.

"What do you want?" Jim asks.

It's late, and most of the campus is still on winter break. Three or four windows are faintly illuminated, but apart from those, the only light comes from the stars and the lamp some ways up the footpath behind Leonard. Jim's expression, therefore, is difficult to read. He sounds angry, though. Leonard decides to take that as a good sign; anger is better than nothing.

"I want to talk," he says.

"I don't."

"What _do_ you want to do?"

It's an idiotic question, but Jim seems to take it seriously. "I'd've thought it was obvious, but I guess I need to spell it out for you. I want to get laid. And I want to get drunk. Not necessarily in that order."

"Most of the bars'll be closing soon."

"Yeah, but not all of them. Some of them'll be open for a while. Not every sentient species is diurnal. You know, McCoy, you could stand to be a little more open-minded."

Leonard snorts. "Was that supposed to hurt?"

"It was just an observation," Jim says with a shrug. "Kindly get the fuck out of my way."

"No."

Jim's nostrils flare, and his free hand clenches in a fist. Leonard casts about desperately for something he can use. Finally he just blurts, "You're gonna freeze to death, going out dressed like that! It's January, for fuck's sake."

Jim laughs. It's a bitter, grating sound. "Like you really care."

"I care," Leonard says, ducking his chin into a fold of his woolen scarf. "And if your father were alive, he'd care too."

"Fuck you!"

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" Leonard says, advancing until he and Jim are almost chest-to-chest. He can feel the air shivering between them, even through his thick coat. "You pushed me to try the shuttle sim because you wanted something to celebrate on your birthday. Because the fact that you were born has never been enough."

Jim's shoulders twist, and Leonard knows that there's no way he's getting out of this conversation unbruised, but he keeps going. "That didn't work, so this is Plan B: getting so completely shit-faced and fucked that your birthday passes without your even being aware. Jesus fuck, Jim, do you really think that's what he would've wanted? Do you think that's what he died for?"

The leather jacket falls to the ground as Jim launches himself at Leonard, who doesn't even try to sidestep. He just takes it, the full impact of the blow, and they both go sprawling.

They almost hit the pavement, but Leonard twists at the last second and they end up on the cold yellow grass, Jim on top. Knocked breathless, Leonard drops his head back and waits, heart hammering, for the fists to start flying. He doesn't care what Jim does to him at this point. He'll take pain. He'll take anything.

Jim's body tenses. He makes a raw, ragged sound deep in his throat. It's almost a sob. Then he just collapses. Without a word, without another sound, all the fire and drive seem to leave him and he goes limp against Leonard's chest.

It's scary, this total collapse. In a way, it's more frightening than the lurching of the shuttle because it's so _wrong_, it's uncanny, practically an abomination; Jim should not seem so defeated.

Leonard hesitates for maybe five seconds. Then he wraps his arms around Jim, sliding the fingers of one hand into his hair, curving the other hand protectively over the back of his neck. Holding him tightly, Leonard whispers, "I'm sorry. Oh, God, Jim. I'm so, so sorry."

He feels the shuddering breaths, the slow, heavy tread of Jim's heartbeat. His lips in the stiff blond hair, he says again, "I'm sorry. I was an asshole. I was scared and I took it out on you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He'll repeat it all night if he has to, and into the morning. He'll never stop saying it, if that's what Jim wants from him, if that's what he needs.

By and by, though, Jim stirs and Leonard falls silent, waiting. Jim turns so that his head is tucked under Leonard's chin, and lifts one hand to clutch at a fold of Leonard's scarf. They lie quietly like that for a minute more. Then Jim says, "I'm not afraid of dying. I'm not even afraid of dying alone. But I don't want to be nothing. I don't want to go through life and not have it mean something. At the same time, I don't want to be something just because it's what people expect me to be because of my father. People expect me to be something. Captain of a starship. Some kind of hero. And that's great. That's a great destiny. But they don't know me. They think they know me because of my father, but they don't know me at all. That's what terrifies me."

"You're not nothing," Leonard says. "You're Jim Kirk and no one else, and you could never be nothing. And you didn't have to tell me that."

"I wanted to. I guess I kind of owe it to you after pushing you this afternoon."

"You don't owe anything to anyone, darlin."

Jim shivers – that silk shirt really isn't warm enough – so Leonard wraps him in his coat. It's a large coat – he thought he'd be wearing it with multiple layers underneath, San Francisco being so much closer to the Arctic than Atlanta – so there's just enough room for the two of them.

Stroking Jim's back, Leonard says, "Why didn't you tell me before? About tomorrow being your birthday? I'd've understood. I wouldn't've been angry."

"I thought you might've wanted an out. Of … this thing," he clarifies, while Leonard just blinks at him, mystified. "Figured I'd offer it to you. See if you took it."

"What made you think I'd want an out?"

"I don't know. I mean – you give me mixed signals. Sometimes I think you really like me. Sometimes I'm pretty damn sure you want me. But you never make a move. Or you snarl and growl and I get the impression you don't really approve of me."

"I like you," Leonard says in an emphatic tone that Jim had better not misinterpret. "I more than like you." He swallows. "I want you. As for my approval… You don't need it."

"I want it," Jim says. "It actually means a lot to me. I've never met anyone who cares about people like you do. You really give a shit, and you never asked anything of me. I was just being an asshole before. You're _not_ a coward. I know that's what I implied, and I _meant_ to imply it, but it's not true. The first time I met you, you were doing what scared you."

"I was drunk."

"You were doing what you had to do to get through it. You keep trying, and eventually you'll be able to do it sober. I know you will. I mean it."

It's crazy, especially after today, but Leonard believes him. And he says, "You're not a whore. And yeah, I meant to imply it too, but it's not true."

"I like sex," Jim says.

"Sex is fine. Sex is great."

"Sometimes I like sex with multiple partners. And multiple species. Sometimes at the same time."

"Jim…" He presses his cheek against his hair. "I don't like the fighting. I don't like it when you get hurt, and I want you to start taking better care of yourself. But the sex…" He sighs. "I meant what I said a while back. If you're all consenting adults, and you're being careful, there's nothing wrong with it. And it's not like I have any right to judge, anyway. Though…" He hesitates. "It's just possible I'm a little jealous."

"Of me?" Jim sounds incredulous.

Leonard cuffs his shoulder. "Of _them_, you idiot."

Jim laughs. It's soft but unconstricted; it's the best thing Leonard's heard in a long, long time. "You could come with me sometime. You _could_. Sexy guy like you."

"It's not my thing," Leonard says with some regret. "I'm old-fashioned."

"Fine," says Jim. "Then you'll be the one I keep coming back to. The one I come home to." And with that, he tugs Leonard's scarf open and kisses his neck.

His lips are soft and warm and eager, and Leonard wants to let go and have that be the last word, but he can't. Jim was honest; now it's his turn. Before he does anything else, he needs to wash his hands.

"Don't," he says. "Wait – you… There's something I have to say first."

Jim gives the pulse at his throat one more kiss, then settles himself against Leonard, his hand resting over his heart. "What is it?" he asks, and his voice is so full of gentle concern that it almost rips Leonard apart.

He stares at the sky. It's a clear night; the stars stand out sharply against the black. He always liked looking at them, even though the idea of flying among them chills him to the core. He reminds himself that he's not a coward. Then he takes a deep breath and tells Jim everything.

Not in explicit detail: he's tired and cold, and he can feel Jim shivering. Just everything he needs to know.

About his father being diagnosed with Hammond's Disease. About the near-constant, crippling pain he faced. About the loss of his autonomy, and his dignity. About how Leonard assumed responsibility for his care, though it meant abandoning his other cases, and neglecting his research, his wife, and young daughter. About how, when his father's pain became unmanageable, Leonard helped him end his life.

About how, only two weeks after his father's death, a doctor at a lab in New York discovered the cure for Hammond's Disease.

Leonard is aware of the intense gaze, of the fingers stroking his hair. "He begged me," he finishes brokenly. "My father, one of the proudest men I've ever known. He begged me. I could've waited. Two more weeks. I knew about Catherine Yang's research. I didn't have any real hope at that point, but I'd read all her papers, I knew what she was working on. I could have kept him in a coma, or in stasis…"

Jim brushes his fingertips over Leonard's lips. "Bones."

"It fucked me up."

Jim kisses his forehead. "It's okay."

"It's not okay. How can you, of all people, tell me it's okay?"

"Me of all people." Jim's lips twitch. "Why didn't you tell me before? After that Early Starfleet History lecture, when I came over with Chinese food and wouldn't shut up about my father … why didn't you say something then? You didn't think I could handle it?"

"I don't know." He really doesn't. What he'd been thinking, why he'd been so certain Jim would abandon him when he found out, how he'd convinced himself that it wasn't just inevitable but _right_ – it's all gone from his mind. "I don't know," he says again helplessly.

"_I_ do. You didn't say anything before because you thought I wouldn't understand. Or that I'd resent you. Because you had what I wanted, and you gave it up. Bones." He raises himself so he can frame Leonard's face with his hands. Sweeping the pads of his thumbs over Leonard's eyebrows, he says, "You're not a murderer. You did what he asked. You did the right thing. I know, because I trust you. I'm not surprised it fucked you up. It was your father. And Yang's timing sucked. It sucked _so_ much. But you respected your father's wishes. You let him go when he asked. You gave that much control and dignity back to him. Bones, _it's okay._"

"My wife didn't understand."

"I'm not your wife."

"Thank God."

He doesn't know if he feels better, having confessed. He feels freer, as if a knot around his heart has been loosened. Jim is kissing him again, and making an odd, ruffling sound that Leonard takes a few moments to identify as laughter.

"God, Bones. We're both so fucked up, we belong together."

It does something to him, changes something inside him – those words, that laughter, the insistent press of those lips against his eyelids, his cheeks, his temples. Suddenly he's kissing Jim back and grabbing at him, holding him while he pushes himself up off the grass. Now seated with Jim in his lap, kissing his mouth, his fingers begin an exploration. They start low, ghosting over Jim's belly, and work their way up, flicking buttons open until the silk shirt slides away and he can press his mouth to that pale, well-muscled chest.

He feels the gooseflesh and the hitching breaths, feels Jim catch his shoulders for balance and arch his back. Leonard pinches one hard nipple and twists it, while his lips capture the other. He curls his tongue against the tiny nub of flesh, laving, then sucking hard.

Jim's grip tightens. "God, _Bones_," he breathes.

He wants to drink Jim in, take him deep inside himself and hold him there. He wants to make love to him all night and into the morning. He wants to taste him as the dawn warms him, take care of him, celebrate him.

Stroking the back of Leonard's neck, Jim says, "What did you call me before?"

"Mmm?"

"When you said I didn't owe anything to anyone. You called me something. I think you called me darling, except you said it in that sexy Southern accent."

Leonard gives Jim's nipple one last swirl with his tongue and looks up. "Darlin?" he drawls.

Jim melts against him. "Yeah. Like that."

"Think I could get used to that," Leonard says as he nuzzles him. "If that's what you like, darlin."

Jim shivers, laughs, and tugs his scarf again. "Come on, let me take you home."

"You want to go back to your place?" Leonard scowls uncertainly.

"Sure. We're right here, and my roommate's still on Lunar One."

"I've seen your place. It's a disaster area. Come over to mine. You're dressed for going out." Half-dressed, anyway: the silk shirt is hanging around Jim's elbows now.

"You're dressed for an Arctic expedition," Jim retorts. "It doesn't follow we should get a dogsled. Besides, I have something that needs taking care of … _now_." He bucks his hips, and stars sizzle in Leonard's belly and groin as they connect. "You're going to want to do something about that, Doctor."

Leonard pulls him down into a hard, hungry kiss. He's never tasted anything as hot or sweet as Jim's mouth. He can't remember the last time he felt so young and eager. "Your place," he growls.

 

4/3/2010


End file.
